Reputation
by Everleigh Chance
Summary: John pressed his lips into a thin line, not knowing what to say or to think. The woman... God, he didn't even know her name— "Oh." But as if she had heard his thoughts, she paused in the doorway and her clear, blue eyes found John's once more. "And the name's Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221B Baker Street." [ Fem!Sherlock, starts with ASiP, eventually canon-divergent/AU ]
1. Wanted: Flatmate, Preferably Ordinary

Author's Note: I honestly didn't know what to think of this idea either when it first took root in my head, but the longer I thought about it, it grew and grew to be a better idea. A genderbent Sherlock Holmes? Okay, but what else could I tell about the story without being dull, boring, and predictable? Then I realized... with the right amount of tinkering and a few new twists, I knew that this idea could make for a good story.

And so, hello there! You're looking at my first _Sherlock_ fic! I think it's best if we started on familiar ground though, don't you think? That said, this story begins with _A Study in Pink_ — but with a few tweaks of my own added here and there. After this, the departures from canon will become more and more obvious as time goes on because, hey, where's the fun in knowing what happens next? And the changes will be _glaringly_ obvious, mind you. I'm talking about rearrangement of events, major character changes (I'm not just talking about Sherlock), maybe a few unfamiliar cases just to throw you guys off the loop... well, you'll just have to wait and see!

Without further ado, read on — and I hope you guys enjoy the ride!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters, settings, etc. from BBC's Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories. I do not claim any ownership over any publicly recognizable figures and articles used here — they all belong to their respective creators. I only own the plot and the original characters of my own invention.

* * *

 **REPUTATION**

 **{** _Part One_ **}  
** \- Outlast -

 **A Study in Ruby**

* * *

 **01: [** _Wanted: Flatmate, Preferably Ordinary_ **]**

* * *

 _14th December_

 _ **Nothing**_

Nothing

* * *

 _15th December_

 ** _Pointless_**

Nothing happens to me.

* * *

 _20th January_

 ** _How?_**

How do I delete this?

* * *

 _21st January_

 ** _Happy now?_**

Look Ella. I'm writing my blog.

* * *

 _25th January_

 ** _Drinks_**

Met up with some of the rugby lads from Blackheath last night. They haven't changed. Still downing pints like they're in the twenties. Still all taking the mick out of each other. None of them mentioned my leg.

* * *

 _28th January_

 ** _Serial suicides_**

There's been another of those 'serial suicides'. It's weird. There doesn't seem to be any connection between... Read More

* * *

 **Wrong!**

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," Sergeant Sally Donovan advised the group of reporters upon seeing the text on her phone.

"It just says 'wrong,'" a reporter remarked among the low murmurs of confusion that arose from the room.

"Yeah, well..." _Not this again._ As Donovan answered the reporter, Detective Inspector Lestrade could already sense a new storm brewing in the distance, a new headache blooming between his eyes. A quiet sigh slipped from his parted lips as he wearily watched Donovan attempt to bring the session to an end.

Another reporter piped up. "But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

Lestrade licked his lips. "As I say, these suicides are _clearly_ linked," he replied, stressing his words. "Um... it's an — it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating—"

Lestrade realized the mistake in his words too late until the room stirred once more when a chorus of phones rang out. He glanced at his phone only to see the same word from before glowing on his screen, a well-placed taunt. It was as if the person texting was just waiting for Lestrade to say the wrong words.

 **Wrong!**

 _Our best people — Fine, alright. A lie._ "Says 'wrong' again," a reporter pointed out. Lestrade simply pinched his nose as he began to prepare himself for the long day ahead. He glanced at Donovan, casting her a silent plea to help him out.

Donovan caught his despairing look. "One more question," she announced.

"Is there any chance that these are murders?" a reporter with glasses began. "And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

 _There we go_. Somewhere, Lestrade knew that _someone_ was probably screaming at their television. _God, give me strength_. "I... I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides," he replied. "We know the difference. The, um, the poison was _clearly_ self-administered."

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the reporter shot back.

"Well, don't commit suicide," Lestrade retorted. Shocked whispers emanated from the crowd, much to his confusion, until Donovan muttered to him, "Daily Mail."

 _Damn it._ Well, he couldn't take that back now, could he? Instead, he spoke, "Obviously, this is a frightening time for people but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

As soon as the last word left his mouth, message alerts scattered all over the room again.

 **Wrong!**

As the reporters glanced down at their screens, Lestrade realized that his phone hadn't rang... until a second later. This time, the text read differently.

 **You know where to find me.**  
 **SH**

 _Damn me._ There it was, the text he'd been waiting for. Lestrade didn't even bother to hide his exasperation as he slid his phone into his pocket. "Thank you," he announced as he stood up from his seat, effectively ending the conference.

* * *

The moment he stepped back into the office of Scotland Yard with Donovan behind him, his sergeant didn't hesitate in voicing out her thoughts.

"You've got to stop her doing that. She's making us look like idiots."

Lestrade let his irritation creep into his voice. "If you can tell me how she does it, I'll stop her."

* * *

 _Nothing happens to me._

John Watson had decided that the day was too beautiful to waste. So instead of taking a taxi back to his flat, he took a route that went through Russell Square Gardens. The green of the grass and the pigeons that scattered about was a welcome change from the four drab walls of his flat. But as he walked through the park, he quite hurriedly did so, making his limp all the more obvious to any pair of eyes that happened upon him. Like the ones that belonged to the plump man sitting on the bench.

An alarm went off in John's head as he passed by the man on the bench. Didn't he look familiar? John shoved the thought away until he heard his name being called.

"John!"

 _I knew he looked familiar..._

"John Watson!" He finally turned back at the mention of his full name only to see the plump man rushing towards him. Fortunately, the man saved John from any embarrassment of having to apologize because he didn't recognize the man in time as he introduced himself with a growing smile.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike," John answered as he reached his hand out to shake Mike's. "Hello, hi."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat," Mike said lightheartedly as he gave a grin.

"No, no," John denied, unconvincingly. He was never that good at lying and Mike had indeed grown fat.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at," Mike began. John prepared himself for the million-dollar question that he knew would come next. "What happened?"

"I got shot," John simply replied, and neither were able to do a thing about the awkward air that suddenly surrounded them.

* * *

John pretended he couldn't see the worried glances his old friend was shooting him as he took another satisfying sip from his take-away coffee.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" he offered Mike.

"Teaching now." John nodded for Mike to continue. "Yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them."

They both chuckled at the last statement before Mike asked, "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

John groaned softly. "I can't afford London on an Army pension."

"Ah, couldn't bear to be anywhere else." Amusement tinged Mike's tone. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah," John began, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. "I'm not the John Watson..."

As he struggled to find the words to say next, he shifted the coffee cup he held in his left hand to his right one. He felt a tremor take a hold of his left hand and he clenched it into a fist once, twice, to get rid of it.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," John answered, the mere thought of Harry helping... Maybe in the next life.

"I don't know." Mike gave a shrug. "Get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on — who'd want me for a flatmate?" _Nobody with a sane mind, that's who_.

A chuckle escaped Mike, making John look back at him. Was there something funny that he'd said? "What?" he questioned, arching a brow.

"You're the second person to say that to me today," Mike replied, and John caught the glimmer of delight in his glass-covered eyes.

John's gaze darted away from Mike. The second person? Well, then... "Who was the first?"

* * *

Her breathing came in ragged pants as she straightened up, the riding crop in her grasp swinging back and forth in the air. Doctor Molly Hooper approached the breathless woman with a small smile as she placed her riding crop down and plucked out a pen and a small notepad from the inside of her jacket.

"So, bad day, was it?" the pathologist attempted to joke.

"Hm," Sherlock Holmes hummed as she jotted down notes on her pad, casting Molly a second-long glance. "Let me know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering," Molly said. "Maybe later, when you're finished—"

 _Wait._ Sherlock's eyes went back to Molly and she saw it, a shade of red coating the pathologist's thin lips. _Oh._ Her hand stopped scribbling on paper and she pointed her pen at Molly.

"Lipstick. You weren't wearing that before," she observed, letting her question ring out in her words. "That shade suits you," she added after a beat, another observation.

"Oh, er, thank you. I mean — I refreshed it a bit," Molly answered, a smile growing on her lips.

 _No, she didn't_. But Sherlock simply gave a nod before she returned her attention to her notes. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

"Yes, please," was Sherlock's swift reply as she put her pen and notebook away. "Black, two sugars. Thank you, I'll be upstairs."

As she walked away, Molly's quiet answer still reached her ears. "Okay."

* * *

"Well," John remarked upon entering one of the laboratories of St. Bartholomew's. "Bit different from my day," he honestly said as the smell of chemicals and the collection of scientific apparatus swarmed his senses.

Mike chuckled. "Oh, you've _no_ idea."

A reply sat on John's tongue, waiting to be spoken, when someone else beat him. A husky but feminine tone emanated from one side of the laboratory as John's gaze went to the source of the voice and lingered on the figure sitting down before the cluttered table.

"Mike, may I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike answered, taking a few steps forward.

"I prefer to text," the woman retorted.

The woman, John saw, was bathed in the laboratory's dim light, emphasizing her fine-boned features and her pale skin. Her hair was black and hung loose a few inches above her shoulder blades, cascading in large, thick curls. She wore a white dress shirt, a black suit jacket, and black trousers to match, and they all clung tightly to her slender frame.

John blinked. A creature as darkly appealing as she was had been the last thing he'd expected to see in a lab. Not that she looked out of place, but—

"Sorry. It's in my coat," Mike's voice disrupted John's train of thought. He gave the plump man a glance, trying to recall whether Mike had indeed left his phone in his pocket. John could've sworn he saw Mike place his phone in his pants' pocket earlier...

Speaking of which, John remembered that he had his own phone sitting in his pocket. He took it out and offered it to the woman, whose eyes were glued to the laptop before her while a Petri dish sat beside it.

"Er, here. Use mine." John raised his phone and effectively caught the woman's attention.

"Oh." Her gaze flickered towards him, back to the Petri dish, then back to him. "Thank you."

A small smile formed on John's lips as the woman stood up and approached him. She moved as gracefully as John expected her to be. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike introduced from the other side of the table, pointing at the pepper-haired man.

As the woman neared John, he watched her intently and found himself staring into her eyes, a bright blue that pierced through him. They were clear as glass and unwavering in their intensity. John's breath caught in his throat — he could practically sense the gears in motion behind them as she took his phone and flipped open the keypad. She began to text.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

A second passed. John's heart skipped a beat. He blinked. "Sorry?"

The woman briefly glanced up at him. "Afghanistan or Iraq? Which was it?"

He was hearing her correctly, wasn't he? _Afghanistan or Iraq? How—_ John's lips parted in silent surprise as he looked at Mike, who was smiling smugly. He simply gave John a shrug, nothing more.

John swallowed, confusion brewing in his mind. "Afghanistan? Sorry, how did you—"

The door to the laboratory then swung open and a redheaded woman entered. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," the woman cut off John before handing him back his phone. She turned to the other woman — presumably a doctor, given the white coat she was wearing — who handed her a mug.

"The lipstick. What happened to it?" John looked at the woman as she spoke to the doctor.

"It wasn't working for me," the redhead replied.

"Really? I thought you looked better with it. Now your mouth's too..."

John watched as the woman gestured to her own lips before she paused to take a sip from her coffee. Both he and the doctor waited for her to continue her words but were taken aback when she instead turned her back to them and began walking back to her spot before her laptop.

"...Okay," the redhead remarked before she walked away, leaving the lab. _Okay, indeed_. John sucked in a breath as he felt his train of thought returning in action. With each moment he spent longer in the lab with the woman, more questions began to sprout in his head. Who was this woman? And how did she—

"How do you feel about the violin?"

Oh, so it wasn't only him who had questions then. But that seemed rather out of the blue, didn't it? The violin? _What?_ John turned once more to Mike for answers but he only grew peeved when he saw a shit-eating grin on Mike's face. _Good God_. What did the man know? Just what exactly did he bring him into?

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked as turned back to the woman. Her fingers were swiftly tapping on the keys.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." She turned to John and her fingers went still. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," she finished, shooting John a smile, a hugely false one.

 _Potential flat_ — _Oh._ John looked at Mike. "Oh, you... you told her about me?"

The plump man shook his head. "Not a word."

John doubted it. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," the woman answered, and John turned back to her only to see her facing away from him. She picked up a dark coat on the counter behind her and deftly began to put it on as she spoke. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for. Alas, here he is — just after lunch with an old friend, one who just came home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?" John pressed on. By that time, it was safe to say that he was more than adequately intrigued... and perhaps a tad alarmed. He patiently waited for a reply as the woman put on a blue scarf next before she scooped out her curly locks and threw them behind her.

"I know a nice little place in central London," she said as she took her phone from the table, ignoring his question. "Under one roof, we should be able to afford it." She began to walk towards John with her eyes were still glued to the small device she held. John stared at her in growing bewilderment, struggling to keep on the poker face he held. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

John's mouth fell open. He blinked several times. Why would anyone bring their riding crop to the mortuary in the first place and leave it there? He stood still, stunned into silence, as the woman headed for the door. But before she could leave, John found his voice and turned towards her direction.

"Is that it?" he asked.

The woman's hand froze, just above the door handle, and she met John's eyes. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

 _Well, yes!_ A smile of disbelief crossed John's face as he stared at the woman. The impassive expression she had on her face didn't vanish, however, and John realized that she was not joking. Lord, she was completely serious. He looked at Mike only to see the same stupid smile on the arse's face.

John returned his gaze to the woman and began to list off his _problems_. "We don't know a _thing_ about each other. I don't know _where_ we're meeting. I don't even know your _name_."

He thought he saw a smirk tug at the corner of her lips for the shortest of seconds as her hand dropped to her side and she backtracked in her steps. John straightened up as she walked towards him and he saw that she stood a few inches taller than him. Her eyes stared at him intently and John felt that he could melt there and then under her bright, clear blues.

"I know you're an Army doctor," the woman began, "and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan." She spoke with cutting precision, but the way her words fell from her lips in her husky voice made her almost sound sensual. "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him — possibly because he's an alcoholic but more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." Her eyes traveled down to John's leg. "And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic. She's quite correct, I'm afraid."

John shuffled his feet at the mention of his leg and his gaze fell to the floor. Now there were a thousand alarms ringing in his head and his thoughts began to grow incoherent as he felt shock wash over him. It was as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped at him, yet something about the sensation flipped a switch back to life inside him. John wasn't quite sure what _that_ was, and he felt his heart stutter.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" the woman finished, sounding quite proud of herself, before she walked back towards the door and opened it.

John pressed his lips into a thin line, not knowing what to say or to think. All he could think about was the way his heart was now beating erratically and everything that the woman had just said. The woman... God, he didn't even know her name—

"Oh." But as if she had heard his thoughts, she paused in the doorway and her eyes found John's once more. "And the name's Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221B Baker Street."

As John's mind rushed to memorize the address, the woman — Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it? — winked at him with a click of her tongue before she glanced at Mike.

"Afternoon," she bade them before she left the room.

* * *

 **Quest Search**

 **"Sherlock Holmes"**


	2. Deductions and Introductions

Author's Note: We're still on familiar ground (though watch out for a few but important tweaks) but please bear a little more with me! Also, I'm not quite sure which I enjoyed writing more — John's point of view, or Sherlock's. I do want to know what your thoughts are though. Don't forget to drop a review!

* * *

 **02: [** _Deductions and Introductions_ **]**

* * *

 _Perfect timing_.

Just as her taxi pulled up to the curb, Sherlock's eyes spotted a familiar limping figure approaching their rendezvous. He reached for the door knocker before using it to rap thrice. As she opened the taxi door and stepped out of the vehicle, John's head turned towards her direction, his eyes widening when they met hers.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted him before turning to the taxi driver, a man in his fifties with white hair. As she took out her wallet to pay the cabbie, a dash of red caught her eyes. Eyebrows knitting, she lifted her gaze to see the driver holding a handkerchief close to his nose, the white cloth stained with a smattering of crimson. The cabbie's nose was bleeding, she realized.

"Oh. You alright?" she asked flatly as she handed the cabbie her money.

"I'll live," he answered with a reassuring smile. "Good evenin', miss."

"Evening. Thank you." Sherlock nodded at the cabbie before he pulled away from the curb and drove away to find his next fare. When she turned on her heel, she saw the pepper-haired man walking over to her. She decided to meet him halfway and offered him a thin-lipped smile.

"Ah, Miss Holmes," John greeted her, reaching a hand out.

"Sherlock, please." She took his offered hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Well, this is a prime spot," he observed, giving his surroundings a quick scan as they walked towards the door that had written on it in brass letters —

 **221B**

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal," Sherlock began. "Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry — y-you stopped her husband being executed?" John answered.

"Oh no. I ensured it." Sherlock offered him another smile to ease his obvious surprise.

Just then, the door swung open inwards and the voice of an elderly woman drifted from within. "Sherlock, hello," Mrs. Hudson greeted with open arms, and Sherlock stepped forward to wrap her in a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock stepped back after the brief hug to present John to the landlady. She let the two exchange their pleasantries and let the limping man inside first before she followed after, the door to 221B falling shut behind her.

* * *

"Well, this could be very nice," John mused out loud as he moved about in the sitting room of the flat. Key word being _could be_ , the doctor had instantly developed a liking towards the flat the moment he stepped in and took in the green walls and the red-and-white patterned wallpaper, the draping curtains, the carpet, _everything_. However, upon seeing the boxes and various objects scattered about and the general disorganized appearance of the place, John couldn't help but feel a little dismay bubble up within him. "Very nice indeed," he parroted, but in his mind, he wondered how such a nice place could be used as a mere storage place for so many... stuff.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, quite cheerfully. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out... _oh_." So the stuff weren't just _stuff_. John felt his cheeks flush as he met Sherlock's eyes, who had fallen silent. Eyes darting back and forth, she then began to walk around the place, hurled a few folders into a box, nudged another box to the side with her foot, grabbed a small pile of unopened letters then stabbed them into the mantelpiece with a knife. John tried not to wince at the sight while he tried to work his way through the realization that all of these belonged to Sherlock.

"So this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can, ahem, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock provided, although not sounding at all flustered.

"That's a skull..." John then commented upon spotting the rather macabre figure on the mantelpiece. He pointed his cane at the mentioned object, not knowing how he would feel if it was actually authentic, which seemed to be the case.

"Oh, his name's Billy. Friend of mine," the woman answered, giving the skull a soft pat before walking away to remove her coat and her scarf. The way she answered with such casualty made John sway in surprise, but he found his lips curving into the faintest of smiles at how eccentric his potential flatmate was turning out to be, something that he didn't seem to be having any problems with so far.

 _Huh._

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson's voice reached John as she entered the room to pick up a cup and saucer from the coffee table. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," John deadpanned, eyes narrowing as they momentarily flew to a silent Sherlock who was busy fixing something on a shelf in the corner. Mrs. Hudson wasn't thinking that they were an item, was she?

"Oh, don't worry — I won't judge. I know it's common for you young people to do this kind of thing nowadays, moving in together and whatnot to see how things'll work with the two of you under the same roof," Mrs. Hudson chirpily answered with a smile.

 _Oh, God_. John blinked. He glanced again at Sherlock, and when he saw that the woman wasn't even saying or doing anything to stop her landlady from jumping to the wrong conclusions, his mouth simply gaped open. Was she was actually oblivious to what her landlady just said or—

"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made," Mrs. Hudson's voice then came from the kitchen.

Shaking his head, John turned to the armchairs before the fireplace. There were two armchairs. Grabbing a cushion, he plumped it before dropping it on the nearer armchair and he sat himself down with a small groan. This should be interesting, at the very least.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John then remarked as Sherlock flipped open a laptop on the desk by the wall.

She turned to him, her hands slipping into her pockets. "Anything interesting?"

John tapped a finger on his walking stick. "Found your website. _The Science of Deduction_."

Her lips curved into a small grin and she looked rather proud of herself. "What did you think?"

 _Oh, you've got to be kidding me_. John shot her a look of disbelief, and her smile turned into a frown.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" John asked skeptically.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "Of course I can — I read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

While the woman had already done a demonstration of just that yesterday, John was still in doubt. "How?"

However, Sherlock decided it was the perfect moment to act enigmatic all by sudden. The ghost of smile lingered on her lips as she turned back to her laptop, and John gave a quiet sigh. _Wonderful_.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." Mrs. Hudson walked into the sitting room with a newspaper in her hands. "Three exactly the same."

John blinked. It was those suicides again.

Wait. _Right up your street?_ What the hell did that mean?

The sound of a car pulling up to the curb below then reached John's ears. He watched as Sherlock approached the window. "Four," she remarked. Four? Was she correcting Mrs. Hudson? "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson echoed. _What?_ A fourth murder? How the bloody hell—

John watched in confusion from his seat as he heard someone bounding up the stairs of the building before entering the flat. Didn't anybody lock the door earlier?

"Where?" Sherlock asked the stocky man who had arrived, her brows creasing.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

* * *

Dear God.

When John came to the flat on Baker Street, he didn't expect anything out of the ordinary. He'd expected a simple tour of the flat, a few introductions, some talk about the rent, but nothing like _this_. He certainly didn't expect the eccentric woman to leap and twirl about the room like some child during Christmas when the news of a fourth suicide — a sodding _suicide_ — came straight through the door. He certainly didn't expect her to disappear from the flat so soon after the news; she seemed so ecstatic about the suicide that it was frankly alarming. Lastly, John certainly didn't expect her to be back so _soon_ —

"You're a doctor," she had drawled while standing in the doorway as she put on her gloves. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Yes," John had answered, clearing his throat as he rose to his feet.

"Any good?"

" _Very_ good," he had replied with utmost conviction.

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." Sherlock had stepped into the room, ambling towards him with a contagious air of self-assurance.

"Mm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime; far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh, God — _yes_."

And just like that, she had whisked John away from the homely confines of 221B and into a cab that launched them into the busy streets of London. The curtain of night fell upon them not long after, while John had sat beside Sherlock with a hundred questions tearing through his mind. One of them was, _What did I get myself into?_

"Okay, you've got questions," her low voice had pierced the silence. Then, with John's occasional prompting, Sherlock had proceeded to enlighten him about their destination and her occupation (a _consulting_ detective? that was new) before, with a remark that John that he had not quite realized sounded like a challenge to her ("The police don't consult _amateurs._ "), going on to explain just how exactly she had arrived to her judgments about him the previous day. Haircut, tanned skin, his damn limp, even bloody Harry — Sherlock had gotten it all down to a T. Well, except for one detail.

"That... was amazing."

A beat passed. There was no reply from Sherlock. Silence. Then, "Do you think so?"

John blinked. With everything that she'd just said, how could it not be? How could _she_ not be? "Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off!'"

A thin-lipped smile crossed her lips, and John couldn't help the grin that broke on his own face. His potential flatmate was proving to be very interesting, indeed.

Minutes later, their cab finally arrived at Lauriston Gardens.

"So, did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked once they were out of the cab.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," John began as they walked. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce... and Harry is a drinker."

She flipped her curly locks behind her shoulder, one corner of her lips tugging into a smirk. "Oh, spot on. Lovely. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet."

John limped on down the street while Sherlock stopped dead in her tracks, her features straightening. "Harry's your sister," she deadpanned.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John stopped walking as well.

" _Sister!_ " Sherlock then hissed through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

She began to walk again and John fell in stride with her. "There always has to be something," she muttered under her breath irritably.

"Hello, freak."

John trained his gaze further and saw, beyond the police tape strung across the road, a woman with curly hair.

 _Freak?_

"Nice to see you, Sally, but I'm here for Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock was unfazed.

"Why?" the woman demanded.

Sherlock rolled her head on her neck before her lips curved into a false smile. "I was invited."

" _Why?_ " John tensed, instantly discerning the antagonism between the two women.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock retorted sarcastically.

"Well, you know what _I_ think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally."

* * *

Lifting the police tape, she ducked beneath it and crossed over to the restricted area in one stride. Straightening, Sherlock drew in a deep breath of the cool night air and—

And she smelled it. Something musky, something masculine. Deodorant — a man's deodorant. But it was coming from Donovan...

It was not Donovan's; Sherlock knew that scent and she knew whose it _originally_ was.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

A look of confusion crossed Donovan's face. "I don't — er, who's this?"

Sherlock turned her head to see John who had approached them.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," she introduced John before turning to him. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend," she drawled slowly, her tone coated with sarcasm.

Donovan looked at her disbelievingly. "A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?" She turned to John, sounding like she could laugh. "Wha — did she follow you home?"

John looked uncomfortable. "Would it be better if I just waited and—"

" _Don't_ keep me waiting, doctor," Sherlock snapped, lifting the police tape for John who simply stared for a moment before crossing over.

"Freak's here, bringing him in," she then heard Donovan say to her radio as Sherlock dropped the tape once John was beside her. As Donovan led the way, Sherlock trailed behind her, her astute stare taking in the street before them as she turned around.

Her eyes narrowed. _Tracks, asphalt street, car tires, no, no, shoe marks, no—_

Then her stare landed on a man coming down towards them. He wore a coverall over his clothes as he stepped down on the pavement.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock greeted him, the man's disdainful glare on her going unmissed. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson told her in a stern tone.

"Crystal," Sherlock replied, taking in a deep inhale when she caught the scent. So she was right. "Hm, is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that," Anderson remarked peevishly.

"Your deodorant told me that."

"...My deodorant?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "It's for men," she whispered a tad dramatically.

"Well, of course it's for men _—_ _I'm_ wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock caught the look of horror that settled on Anderson's face as he spun on his heel to face Donovan who stood not far behind him.

Another deep inhale. "Ooh! I think it just vaporized, it's gone now. May I go in?"

Anderson turned back to her, wagging a finger at her. "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply _—_ "

"Oh, Anderson, I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally simply came around for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." Sherlock then strode past Anderson and Donovan but stopped before she went through the doorway. She turned back and glanced at Donovan, adding, "Scrubbed your floors too, perhaps? Maybe some lotion would help with your knees, Sally."

At the bewildered looks that Anderson and Donovan shot her, Sherlock was unable to help the smug smile that tugged at her lips. Then she turned on her heel and walked inside the house. Feeling John on her heels, Sherlock smoothly made her way to a room where Lestrade was waiting along with several of his men. Tall, portable lamps were situated in the corners of the room, and Lestrade was putting on a coverall in the middle of the space.

Sherlock pointed to several more coveralls that were folded neatly on a table behind Lestrade. "You need to wear one of these," she told John.

"Who's this?" Lestrade then asked, referring to John.

"He's with me," came Sherlock's simple reply as she took off her gloves before pocketing them.

"But who _is_ he?" Lestrade pressed.

"I said, he's with _me._ "

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John then interposed, dropping his jacket on the table as he picked up a coverall.

Sherlock stared at him. Was she going to put one on? What kind of question _—_ "Don't want to ruin the outfit," she replied, going for a simpler explanation but one that still sounded justified in her head. She'd never used a coverall and she wasn't about to start now. Before her, Sherlock caught Lestrade give a roll his eyes at her words.

She grabbed a pair of latex gloves off the table. "Don't give me that look, Giles. Where is it?"

" _Giles?_ What — never mind. Upstairs."

Moments later, Lestrade was leading her and John up a circular staircase. The place was clearly decrepit, with mold on the walls, faded wallpapers, and the wood creaking beneath her feet. While John and Lestrade went up the stairs silently with cotton coverings over their shoes, Sherlock's boots quietly clapped against the wooden steps as she made her way up.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade then told her.

"May need longer," she answered coolly as she pulled on the latex gloves.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

Two storeys later, they entered a room, and Sherlock's eyes immediately fell on the corpse in the middle of the room.

She took a few steps forward, holding one hand in front of her as she spread her fingers. Her mind began to tear through the crime scene, the smell, the sounds, the sight of it all setting her nerves on fire and her mind running at the speed of light...

The room itself was bare, emptied priorly of any furniture that it may have had (cleared out by the police). Sherlock took in the holes in the walls, the wooden floorboards, the scaffolding poles, (this place is falling apart) and the portable lighting out of the corner of her eye, but her stare was focused on the woman at the center of the room (very dead). Her lifeless body was lying face down and was covered with a bright pink coat (what a ghastly shade; travel wear; where had she come from? where was she headed?). She wore pink high-heels to match while her hands, which were flat on the floor on either sides of her he—

"Shut up," she then blurted out to Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything," was Lestrade's startled reply.

"You were thinking, it's annoying," Sherlock retorted.

Now, where was she?

Right. Fingers coated with pink nail polish. The woman was also wearing tights. A pale tone, the sheer fabric had small splotches of black on her right leg (splashes from mud? on her calf and heel, nothing on the left leg — she had a suitcase, one that she pulled behind her, a wheeled suitcase then; where was her suitcase?). She wore jewelry too. Gold, authentic... she needed to get closer.

Sherlock then stepped closer to the corpse, walking cautiously, while her ears picked up the sound of John's walking stick behind her; he had followed her. Sherlock had no doubt that John had taken a moment to himself earlier at the sight of the woman's corpse but he was trailing her now, making his own assessments — he was a doctor after all.

She spotted the letters above the woman's hand, the note, and Sherlock curiously eyed the woman's index finger which was positioned at the tail of the last letter.

 _Rache_

 _Hmm._ Left-handed, since she had scratched the word into the floorboards herself, judging by the broken nails of her index and middle finger on her left hand. The ends were ragged, the nail polish chipped off, while her right hand's fingers were still cleanly and fully coated in pink.

Sherlock's eyes widened, drifting back to the word.

 _Rache_. German. Noun. Meaning — revenge.

She dismissed the thought with a small shake of her head (doesn't make sense). She tried again.

 _Rache_. Rached. Rachef. Rachek. Rachel.

Now that sounded right.

Flipping away her cloak, Sherlock then squatted beside the corpse and ran down a latex-gloved hand across her back. When she inspected her hand, they were moist; the woman's coat was damp. Wherever she was before she came to the house, it was raining there. But shouldn't she have an umbrella? Sherlock proceeded to reach into the pocket of her coat, feeling for any objects when she found it. Pulling it into the light, she held out a white folding umbrella that looked dry. Dry?

She ran her fingers down the umbrella then held her hand up. Dry indeed.

There was only one reason why a person wouldn't use their umbrella in the rain.

Returning the umbrella into the woman's coat pocket, Sherlock then checked the collar of her coat and placed her fingers beneath the fabric to confirm her suspicion. She looked at her gloved fingers — wet. The woman must have turned up her collar in some place where there were winds. Strong ones, Sherlock presumed, because the woman had been unable to use her umbrella since the winds would have only made it difficult for her.

Next.

Sherlock then grabbed a magnifier from her coat pocket. Sliding it open, she bent closer to the corpse to inspect the jewelry next. Gold, authentic, check. The woman had a bracelet (clean), a pair of earrings (clean), a necklace (clean), two rings (?) — all were regularly polished save for the rings on her finger, a wedding ring and and engagement ring. They told a different story, judging by their dirty state. Who didn't clean their rings? Obviously, people who were unhappily married.

 _Five, eight, no, ten? More than ten years, perhaps?_

Sherlock pocketed her magnifier before reaching for the woman's hand. After she slipped the gold band from the woman's finger, Sherlock held the ring up and saw that the inside was clean. Not from polishing though, no. The woman regularly removed it, Sherlock concluded. But why?

She knew why.

Satisfaction washed over her as her lips tugged into a smirk. Her mind raced to the fully-formed conclusion.

The woman was a serial adulterer.


End file.
